


Dinner Date

by Siera_Writes



Category: Hat Films - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, Kim being awesome, Lawyer Yogs AU, M/M, Nice Suits, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-03 21:23:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5307311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siera_Writes/pseuds/Siera_Writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's stuck. It's the D.A.: it's always that goddamn D.A. - and really, Smith's mature enough to know he should refer to the man mentally as Trott, Mr Trott, whatever, by now. But keeping it cold and aloof keeps the illusion in his mind that they're very much Not Friends, entirely against one-another, nothing more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dinner Date

**Author's Note:**

> I'm smitten with the Lawyer Yogs AU which desirecomes-desirefades, and hatonic-soulmates (and I've also seen mention of Three in there? If you have been involved in the conception of this wondrous thing, you're even more of a genius than I thought!) have created. Posts to catch up on it are [here](http://desirecomes-desirefades.tumblr.com/post/133894597711/so-i-may-have-fallen-in-love-with) and [here](http://threeplusfire.tumblr.com/post/133881813646/hatonic-soulmates-little-lawyer-yogs-au).
> 
> Well I love it and it's got me writing again, which is even better. Also, I base this fic a couple of years into them knowing each other. Just because I had the last scene in my head and basically couldn't get it out.
> 
> Anyway, as always, my stuff in unbetaed, and any mistakes are due to me and my carelessness. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this little foray.

Papers are scattered over his desk, text thick on the pages, almost blotting the space wholly black like spilt ink. It's quiet in his office, the door closed, blinds shuttered so he can't see the wide space in between rooms. He can hear the mechanisms of his watch clink metallically, muted but easily apparent in the vacuum of noise. His hand is poised above the page, pen clasped tightly, knuckles bleached white.

Stuck. 

He's stuck. It's the D.A.: it's always that goddamn D.A. - and really, Smith's mature enough to know he should refer to the man mentally as Trott, Mr Trott, whatever, by now. But keeping it cold and aloof keeps the illusion in his mind that they're very much Not Friends, entirely against one-another, nothing more. His stomach lurches.

Smith sighs from where he's half-slouched over the paper-strewn surface, head propped on his left hand, fingers curled around his hair and ruining its styling, skin of his face pulled slightly. He pouts petulantly at his current task, kicking his legs out slightly, letting them swing. His feet are crossed at the ankle, and he nudges one of his shoes from the haphazard pile they formed when he toed them off earlier.

He bites out a few curses; and of course, of course, they're almost fond, a smile curling unwittingly at his lips and goddamn it! He's fucking smitten. He's seen Kim's winks, the occasional lewd gesture faux-behind his back, swears he's overheard her and Duncan gossiping, laughing at him. Even the flirting on his behalf. 

And he loves her, he really does, but can't he blame some of this on her? The fact that she's suggested the possibility of there being some attraction between them must have influenced him, made him see things which aren't actually there, speculate in his head constantly. 

Smith's stomach feels more unsettled at this train of thought, guilty at his attempt to pass it all off, blame her instead. She's a brilliant assistant: a brilliant friend, even. You don't make many in this line of work. He'll miss her when she moves on up. If he's honest with himself, she's ready to go, right now. She's stooping far below his level by staying with him, and even though he feels so proud of her, he can't help but constantly wonder in the back of his mind when she's finally going to decide it's her time. She could beat him. She could probably beat the D.A. - no, Trott, Mr Trott, there's no reason to think like this about him - in a couple years, too.

Smith's shocked out of his maudlin state by the door handle being forcefully slammed down, the door launched open. He doesn't look up to see who it is, instead lurching forward to slam his palms to the papers at the edge of his desk nearest the door which had begun to flutter and lift from their precarious balance. Sure, they're disorganised right now, but at least he knows where everything is!

"What the fuck-?" It's Kim, stood breathlessly in the doorway, eyes wide, a black suit cover slung over her back. She doesn't even blink at his profanity, even as he cringes. Unprofessional, but in the case of being scared half to death, forgivable. Something's wrong. Something's very, very wrong. He stumbles to a standing, opening his mouth, about to let a panicked string of words flee his lips in lieu of an actual question.

Kim rushes towards the desk, and as usual, her heels don't impede her progress - it's so impressive to Smith, and he wonders idly how long it took her to perfect this skill, before his mind returns to the current dilemma. "Smith, don't tell me you forgot?"

He scours his mind for any sort of arrangement, appointment, which he might have had today, and draws a blank. His heart jolts, and his abdomen lurches with nerves, hands going cold. He scrabbles for his diary, finds the date, flicks his eyes across the page. Nada. Nothing. He raises his eyes slowly to Kim's dark ones, feeling guilty for his mistake. "Shit. I mustn't have written it down..." Smith swallows hard, throat constricting, eyes flicking behind the woman in front of him as though searching for some sort of solution. There's none. He slides his gaze back to her. "When did you tell me this?" 

"Weeks ago, Smith." Something rings wrong. He rarely messes up, and Kim's made him even better at his organisation. But it's been hectic lately, case upon case, and something was bound to slip through the cracks. She steps around the desk, pulls him to his feet to face her square, and foists the suit cover towards him and holds it to his chest, his hands slowly moving to grasp it himself after she nudges him with the container a second time. "You're not late though. If you change now, you can be there in time."

She strides out of the room, only turning to check that he's actually begun moving. "Hurry, Smith." She steps out of the room, pulling the door closed and standing guard outside. He can see her silhouette through the gaps of the blinds over the window in the door. His office is private enough to be used to change, but Kim working as his bouncer, almost, makes him smile. 

He steps out from the desk, towards the small sofa in the corner of the room. He unzips the container, and frowns upon seeing the black suit, crisp white shirt, and a deep emerald tie. He shoots a glance toward the doorway, confused, eyebrows drawing low. These aren't his... Did Kim buy them for him? She can't have had this set just sitting around, unless she was sure he'd mess up at some point. And even then, it wouldn't have required this level of expense - Smith's just read the brand labels, and his eyebrows pull up in shock.

No. No time to think, just change. He pulls his tie away from his neck in a swift jerk, letting the length of material partially unfurl as it drops to the not-quite-white carpet, still holding the vague shape of the Windsor knot. He runs his hands quickly down the shirt, unbuttoning as quickly as he can manage, cursing under his breath when he fumbles with one. He undoes his belt, then trousers, steps from them. The socks he has are fine, plain. He pulls on the other trousers carefully, fastens his usual smart black belt back into place, draws the shirt up his left arm, passes his right through the other arm, does up the buttons, then looks to the cuffs. Cufflinks. 

He needs some cufflinks. "Kim?" He draws it out, slightly, raises the volume just barely above normal speaking volume so she hears him through the glass. After a heartbeat, she carefully slips through the doorway, face turned away from him. "I'm decent."

"What's the matter?" She looks vaguely pleased, not so much at the fact that he looks good in what she's given him - that's never been an aspect of their relationship - but in a parental way, quite honestly like she's proud of him. Sometimes he wonders at their dynamic.

"I need some cufflinks..." It's meek, and he trails off, unsure of quite what's happening. He proffers his wrists to her as though she requires some evidence of the fact, as though she hadn't herself given him the clothing. 

"Ah!" She holds a finger up to him, before setting out of the room at a light jog. He's still impressed by the running-in-heels thing, but he moves to the tie, deciding it best if he were to continue dressing as far as he can. The tie is cool to his touch - silk: sturdy, his mind whispers - and he feels his cheeks heat. It slips across his fingers invitingly, but he opts to ignore that and the multitude of ill-advised doors that could offer, instead passing it to his right palm, and uses both his thumbs to flick up his shirt collar.

He drapes the tie around his neck, trying the smooth material with a couple of movements, the process muscle-memory to him at this point. It rests nicely, and he adjusts the collar to sit correctly, preening at his reflection in the mirror. He looks good. Kim has a good eye for shapes, colour. He notes the hair to the left of his head which had been unsettled from his earlier slouch, and carefully pushes it back into place. He pulls up a lip, noting it being not quite right, but being fully aware he has no means to sort it further. 

A shadow darts back to the doorway, the unmistakable form of Kim, and she darts back in, whistles at him and smiling a bright smile in answer to the dark look he shoots her, before striding forward and pulling his hands towards her, passing the metal object through the holes deftly. The cufflinks are silver - simple square icons cut into thirds - one segment silver, the next a suspiciously well-matching green, the last black like pitch. She then draws a tiepin from her person, and Smith snorts. She just glares at him until he acquiesces, allowing her to slide it into place. This is just a silver rectangular bar, understated, classy. Nice.

Kim steps back, nods in approval, before reaching around him to pull the jacket out, and passes it to him. He shucks it on, pleasantly surprised at how nicely it fits. It's the right length, sits well on his shoulders, across his back. It's almost as it it's been tailored just for...

He jerks his head up to look at Kim, frowning, about to barrage her with questions, but she grabs his shoes from beneath the desk, and as soon as they're securely on his feet, slaps a hand to his back, and pushes him forwards, with enough force to make him stumble. Any witness would find it comical - a five-foot woman pressing his entire, ungainly six-foot-five self forwards, but he's so caught up in the moment, unsure of quite where he's going, who and what he's heading for, he doesn't even think.

\--- 

"Kim!" He hisses it at her, from where he jolts to a stop in the middle of the establishment. It's a really fucking fancy restaurant - the type of place where it's all rarified European cuisine in written in native language which neither a GCSE - nor an A level in French, Italian, whatever - would actually help you to translate. It's dark, mirrors glistening on the walls, carpet plush and rich, light muted. Everybody is dressed well, to the extent where Smith no longer feels overdressed. 

Normally he can deal with this, normally he can deal with bastards in nice clothing, and schmoozing. But he's not prepared for a very specific thing - person - who is leaning against the bar, nonchalantly, hands tucked in his pockets, talking to an assortment of people Smith's never seen before, without interest. Oh he's feigning it, but Smith knows when that man's interested in something. He'd be talking with his hands, half-smile progressing to a fierce grin. This is not Chris Trott being interested.

"You didn't tell me he'd be here." Smith's stomach clenches, even as he takes in what the other man's wearing - grey trousers, matching grey waistcoat, darker grey shirt... And is the back of the waistcoat navy silk? It certainly has the sheen, though in the half-light the colour is difficult to judge. It's most certainly tailored. Fuck. 

He hears Kim chuckle beside him, and he's pulled low so she can kiss him on the cheek, whisper 'have fun' with a mocking lilt. And she's gone. Before Smith can get his wits together to leave too, the brunet notices him. And goddamn. Trott's face lights up. It's like Kim's said, before, when she's been chatting with Duncan and Smith's not sure whether or not he's supposed to have overheard.

The other man moves away with a dismissive motion to the small gathering around him, and Smith notices them eying him with some distaste. It grounds him enough to free him from being somewhat struck dumb, lets him pull himself back together and shore-up his defences so that voice doesn't take out his knees when they talk.

"Hello."

Smith simply nods in response, irritation at Kim's machinations - her willingness for discourse with the enemy - whirring away in the back of his mind while being altogether too grateful for this opportunity. For them to be able to talk without having to practically jump at each other's throats. He can't hold back the shaky smile, feels his chest swell when it's answered by an equally sweet one. 

There's a pause, heavy, where neither of them seem to be able to quite work out what should be done next, before Trott makes the misstep of asking Smith why he's there.

Smith almost flinches. It's as though Trott didn't know he was going to be here. "You didn't... plan this?" Smith adds a small laugh, uncertainty clouding his mind. He though the brunet must have wanted him here, reached out to Kim, or vice versa, and organised this. But no. They had no contact. He has years of experience of reading the minimal tells on Trott's face, and Smith could swear the man's shaken, unused to being fooled, played.

"No." Trott trails off, before his face goes stony, dark eyes flat and sharp like flint. "But Duncan told me to come here, meet a client..."

Smith could swear the other man considers firing his assistant, just for a split-second. It's almost frightening, a reminder that the other man is actually ruthless. He quickly seems to quickly remember that he and Duncan get on well, and that the blond has been invaluable to him. And then Trott sighs, raises a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, before deciding what he wants to do.

"I guess it couldn't hurt... Smith, are you still up for eating?" Is he... flirting? Smith flicks through the myriad terrible responses, all the innuendos his mind dredges up, until he settles on a barely classier one.

"I'm up for anything with you." He adds in the grin he knows wins over a lot of people, the one which crinkles at his eyes. A wink would probably be overdoing it. The expression calms though, calms to a more genuine smile, something warm, and he feels his sternum swell as Trott claps him on the arm with an answering beam, leading them to a table for two.


End file.
